


(No) Happy Endings

by Synekdokee



Series: Missed Connections [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor's biceps, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 04:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16632656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: He’s made up his mind about keeping things professional - even if Connor’s a little slow on the uptake.





	(No) Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrickleBrickleCitrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrickleBrickleCitrus/gifts).



> Takes place sometime after chapter 1 of You Haven't Gained A Day.

Hank hasn’t been to the precinct gym in years. He feels self-conscious walking through the room in search of Connor, bundled up in his leather coat to shield his aged body from judgemental views.

He knows he should start working on getting back in shape - maybe start jogging again, do some light lifting. He's sick of lagging behind Connor, ashamed of panting and gasping for air after the slightest stretch of his body's current comfort zone. He’s still got enough muscle in him that he wouldn’t even have to start embarrassingly low, but just the thought of sweating out here around his hard-bodied colleagues is enough to give him hives.

“Connor, answer your damn phone,” he snaps when he finally spots the kid.

Connor’s doing bench presses - nothing too heavy, Hank notices, but enough to keep the wiry muscles in his arms in a good shape. He sits up, looking at Hank with surprise, his mouth parted slightly and face and neck flushed flushed with exertion. He wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt, not caring about the patches of sweat darkening the fabric. The motion exposes a sliver of his stomach, flat and pale and lacking hair, and Hank averts his eyes.

“Lieutenant! New case?” Connor asks, leaning forwards to brace his palms on his knees.

Hank keeps his eyes carefully trained on Connor’s face, away from his crotch where the thin, soft fabric of his damp sweat-pants are draped over the swell of his- Right. His face. His face with the flushed skin and sweat beading on his brow and red lips parted. It’s really not that much of a better alternative.

“Fowler wants to see you. Ann Arbour wants an update on your training and they want you in on the call,” Hank says, trying to keep his voice from betraying him.

“You uh. You like this gym?” He asks, and then cringes internally. Real good small talk. Smooth, Anderson.

Connor shrugs, smiling at him cluelessly. “It’s okay. The equipment’s good for what I need, and it’s handy. I miss the pool at my home gym, though,” he says, grabbing his things and leading Hank towards the locker rooms. “I like to swim, more relaxing than running.”

He pauses at the door to the showers, and only then does Hank realise that there’s really no need for him to be here. Connor gives him a curious look, one brow raised. Hank can feel his own neck start to heat up.

“Right. Well, I’ll catch you when you’re done with the thing. Don’t disparage me too much,” Hank says, and then makes a beeline back to the exit, too mortified to think about his own physical inadequacies while some of his colleagues give him odd glances.

 

That night he can’t sleep. He downs a glass of whiskey and then spends an hour tossing and turning in his bed, trying to keep away the thoughts that sometimes keep him awake for hours, or give him the kind of nightmares that linger like tar and ruin his mood for days to come.

And then there’s Connor and the way he’d looked today, sweaty and flushed and the muscles of his arms on display, and he resolutely decides not to think about that either. He’s made up his mind about keeping things professional - even if Connor’s a little slow on the uptake.

He tries to think of their case-load, but he’s spent the whole day on them and he’s running out of novel ideas to interpret the stale evidence.

His mind latches on to the waitress flirting with him at the diner today. She’d been pretty, maybe a few years younger than Hank, and certainly aged better. He likes to think he’s still got some sort of play with the ladies, but he suspects the playfulness was to ensure a tip, not Hank’s number. He thinks about how her hair would look like, let loose from its tidy bun, how she’d smell without the clinging smell of frying oil on her.

He shoves his hand down his boxers, pulling one knee up as he palms himself idly. He wonders what her breasts would feel like, the pebbles of her nipples between his lips, and his dick gives an interested twitch. It’s been a while, Hank’s libido dampened by his depression and drinking habits, but this feels good.

He starts to stroke himself slowly, fingers loose around his shaft while he digs around his brain for good material. He considers grabbing his phone, but discards the thought; browsing porn always makes him feel vaguely pathetic, dirty.

The waitress isn’t getting him any further, the faux attraction lurking in the edges of her teasing gaze making him lose interest. He jerks his dick uselessly, growing more frustrated by the second. And then his treacherous mind slips to Connor, panting after his work-out, and Hank lets out an exhausted sigh, letting go of his half-hard cock and resting his hand on his chest.

It’s a line he refuses to cross, not willing to analyse his own hypocrisy. What kind of dirty fuck jerks off to his subordinates anyway?

He growls, turning onto his side, squeezing his eyes closed. He’ll fall asleep eventually.

Except he doesn’t, and now his gut is tight with the stupid, frustrating simmer of arousal that won’t go away.

He flops onto his back again and hesitates for a moment. If he gets the lube, things will be over quicker, but he’ll have to get up and clean himself up after.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks, reaching for it anyway.

The slick is cool on his hand when he grasps his dick again, stroking firmly while he thinks of something to jerk off to. He wagers he has the same run-of-the-mill fantasies most guys do - doing a couple of pretty young things at once, sinking into a loose, wet hole, sucking and biting at hard, pink nipples, tugging and teasing. He tightens his grip as he imagines sliding into someone’s ass, pulling on some nameless guy’s hair while he uses his whole weight to fuck Connor-

He inhales, hand stuttering for a moment, but his arousal powers though his integrity. It’s just a fantasy, it hurts no one, and no one needs to know.

( _You’ll know_ , supplies a voice in his head, and Hank drowns it out. It doesn’t matter, he can have this, in the privacy of his own home, his own head, he can have something good and maybe in his fantasies he won’t shit all over it.)

Connor’s freckled and mole-dotted shoulders under him, his skin sweat-salted and soft under Hank’s teeth. His voice, always so controlled and measured, hitching with every thrust of Hank’s cock inside him.

In his fantasy Hank climbs to his knees and pulls Connor with him, hauling the kid up and against his chest so he can play with his nipples. Connor whines and shudders against him as Hank tugs and pinches, rolling his hips to press his cock further until he’s balls deep.

 

He groans, breath heavy, sliding his hand under his shirt to play with his own nipples, teasing the left one into hardness, pulling gently and then squeezing it with the pads of his fingers. He wonders if Connor’s are sensitive, can’t imagine them not being. He tries to remember if he played with them that night, and then recoils from it. Thinks of Connor now, strong and lithe and all wiry muscle and carefully put-together composure. He’d like to ruin it, make that perfect posture sag while the kid pants and gasps in Hank’s hands, Wants to make him writhe, make him scream until his voice cracks.

He swipes his thumb across the tip of his flushed cock and gives himself a squeeze, feeling the girth and weight as he bites down on a moan. Connor had loved sucking him off, and Hank would love to see it again. To see those pink lips stretched tight around him, see the determined look in Connor’s dark eyes as he stuffs his mouth with Hank’s cock, trying to take him deeper. Would he let Hank fuck his mouth? Let Hank grip his hair and push him down until he chokes? He sighs at the thought, rubbing under the glans with a calloused fingertip. Connor would refuse to let up, his wet throat constricting around Hank, saliva dripping down his chin and down his smooth, pale chest.

 

Hank grunts, feeling his balls tighten. He keeps thinking of Connor’s mouth on him, wet and hot; and then he thinks of fucking his ass, leaning back to see his cock disappear into Connor's hole, the rim taut around his shaft. He thinks about pulling out, seeing the gape of Connor’s red, puffy opening, and imagines the hungry, desperate whine Connor would make. He’d jerk his hips back, greedy for more, and Hank would slam back in and give it to him. Push Connor down until his chest is flush with the bed - no, the floor, Connor’s nipples rubbing against the rough grain of the carpet, knees chafed red. His hand tight around Connor’s neck, pinning him down while he ruts into him, using him, breathy little gasps spilling from Connor’s drooling mouth.

 

He tugs harder on his nipple, strokes himself faster, feet flat on the bed as he fucks into his own fist. He imagines his cock is Connor’s, imagines he’s stroking something a little slimmer and shorter, pulling on Connor’s cock until he comes, ass impossibly tight around Hank’s cock. He’d hold Connor close, slide his come-stained hand to his belly, smearing it onto his skin, pressing his palm down possessively so Connor’d know who he belongs to, so Connor could feel-

He imagines he can feel his cock move inside Connor, so deep and huge in him he can feel the tip press against the flat of his palm, that’s how well he’d fill the kid up, until he’s ruined, ruined for anyone else’s cock, wrecked and open hole leaking Hank’s semen-

 

He comes with a choked-off shout, a garbled version of Connor's name, spilling over his own fist and belly, pinching his nipple hard as he arches his back and gasps for breath, every muscle in his body seized up with the force of his orgasm.

He slumps down, panting, pulling his shirt down with a shaking hand. His pulse is racing, heart hammering a tattoo like it’s trying to escape his ribcage, and as he rests his come-soaked hand on his stomach the guilt and remorse sinks in, like an oily stain that won't wash off.

“Jesus, fuck,” he breathes, pulling his shirt off and mopping himself clean. No way is he gonna get up now. He curls on his side, tugging the covers up to his chin. He body throbs with the weak after-pulses of remnant arousal, his dick still half-hard from the best orgasm he’s had in ages.

He feels like shit. He remembers some of the less-stellar encounters from his youth, but he can’t think of a single instance he’d regretted sex like he regrets this. It coils ugly and cold in his gut, and whispers in the back of his mind what a perverted old man he is, sad and lonely and jerking off to someone nearly 25 years his junior, his subordinate, someone who trusts him.

The tears don’t quite come, but the shuddering breaths he takes are pathetic enough on their own. But the orgasm has tired him out, numbed his thoughts with a rhythmic throb, and he finally falls into a fitful sleep.

 

The next day he can’t bring himself to look Connor in the eye, shame constricting his throat and sickening his temper, until he snaps something that makes Connor recoil and hunch in on himself, staring at his computer screen with a face like carved stone. Hank’s guilty conscience can take it, just another weight added onto his sagging shoulders.


End file.
